


To Move Heaven and Earth

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Stuff [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Holmes Brothers, John Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Mycroft Ahem Likes John, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft cares, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Whump, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9500060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: John is targeted and threatened by a very deranged and abusive individual.Against his better judgement, he tells Mycroft... Mycroft--who does so *like* John--decides to protect him from the little wanker that dared to touch the doctor.Though Mycroft is *fond* of John, he knows that the doctor belongs to Sherlock completely.





	

As John left the surgery, he couldn't help but notice the by now familiar figure standing across the street glaring at him. The large man made him nervous. He was the type that often leant their brawn to Sherlock's more brilliant adversaries.

So who's was it?

As John walked, the other man followed across the street. At one point, when the doctor glanced his way, the mysterious man pulled back his coat, revealing a handgun.

John shrugged and kept walking. His own gun was at home, but he certainly wouldn't leave the house without it again.

The doctor's reaction seemed to irritate the man and he began shoving people out of the way as he walked for no other reason than he could.

As John crossed the road, he decided on a cab. That would be the best way to avoid this idiot until he could arm himself.

Except as he passed an alley he was grabbed by the collar of his jacket and dragged in.

Before he could react, he was punched from all sides. At least that's how it felt to him. He wanted to strike back, particularly at the bastard that twisted his left arm until he screamed in pain.

He let fly a few punches, and struck one guy in the side of the head, that's all he managed before he fell to the ground. He was sure there was more than one man.

"What's the message?" he groaned during a break in the violence.

"Message?" one of the men asked.

"For Sherlock."

"This has nothing to do with that pouf of a flatmate of yours. This is about Giles. Remember him? From Afghanistan? Remember the leg you didn't save?"

There had been so many boys, men, he hadn't been able to help enough. How could he remember them all?

A siren approached and the men scattered. "You'll be hearing from us again, Doctor Watson."

All John did in response was cough up blood, he groaned and lay down against the wall. All he needed was a sleep… nice and dark and quiet…

John's mobile pinged with an incoming message, but he ignored it. It did it again five minutes later, then five minutes after that. Finally, it rang and John moved sluggishly to answer it.

"John?"

"Sherlock," he croaked.

"I rang Sarah. We've got a case, she said you should be home by now."

"Yeah, shut up."

"I need you!"

John hung up as a black sedan pulled up beside the alley. Mycroft's head poked out. "John?"

The doctor had never been so glad to see the British Government before in his life. He tried to stand, but couldn't seem to regain his feet. In a few heartbeats, Mycroft was by his side.

"Wait, John. How badly are you hurt?"Mycroft started probing at the more obvious injuries. "Do you need an ambulance?"

"No."

"But-" Mycroft looked concerned.

"I was beaten. It's nothing serious."

"Serious or not. You are not going to Sherlock. Come with me."

John was too tired and sore to argue. He let Mycroft help him up and even leaned on him as they made their way to the car. He was grateful when he sat on the comfortable leather seat and was able to rest again.

As the car pulled away, he leaned down, down, down, until his head was resting against the window.

Mycroft watched him and sighed. He'd been too late.

He directed the driver to take him to the mansion. He refused to return the doctor to Baker Street and Sherlock in his present condition.

John didn't even realise he had fallen asleep until he woke up in a place he didn't recognise.

"Doctor Watson."

John groaned as his eyes blinked open. "Mycroft? What's going on?"

"I've brought you to my home. You don't need to be chasing after my brother right now." The government official lifted a protesting John from the car.

He didn't protest for long, he was back asleep in seconds with another groan.

Mycroft realised that he needed to see if John had concussion before letting him sleep. He was sure the doctor had done that with Sherlock numerous times.

Inside, he lay John on the sofa, then shook him gently awake. "John," he said as soon as he saw the doctor's eyes open, "I'm worried you could have concussion."

Groaning, the doctor sat up, his hand going to his achy head. "It's possible. Bloody Hell, but I feel like I've been hit by a train."

"How many were they?"

"3? 4? I don't know. More than 1. There was 1 guy following me when I left work. He's been hanging around a lot."

Mycroft's anger threatened to burst forth. Of course it would have taken several men to inflict this much damage on John. The doctor was a skilled fighter and not easily subdued.

"Well, let's go with 4. I'll look into it-"

Before Mycroft could finish, John's phone buzzed.

Mycroft snatched it up. "Ignore my little brother."

John didn't argue with the loss of his phone. "Do you have anything as mundane as a bag of peas in your freezer?"

"What? Yes, yes of course." He rushed off to get it and grabbed a tea towel to wrap it in.

John, despite the pain, smirked. Seeing Mycroft all flustered was worth the beating he had just had.

"Here," he pushed the bag into his hands.

Mycroft stood there, staring at a bit of blood that had seeped through John's shirt. The people that had done that would pay dearly.

John followed the government official's gaze. "Damn." He started unbuttoning his shirt to see how badly he was hurt.

"Did any of them have a knife?"

John's phone buzzed again. They both ignored it, when it fell silent Mycroft's started up.

Grumbling, the government official pulled it from his pocket.

"Sherlock, not now."

"How's John?"

Well of course the brat had deduced where he was.

"He's injured and I'm taking care of him, so sod off."

John gaped at Mycroft and Sherlock was shocked into momentary silence. The silence didn't last long.

"Good, I'd hate to have to see to him. He's a horrible patient. Send me the details. I'll find whoever hurt him."

John held his hand out for the phone.

Reluctantly Mycroft handed it over.

"Come here," John ordered.

"But, John-"

"Now, Sherlock. There's something you need to see."

"I... Alright." The detective rang off.

Mycroft frowned. "I won't have him upset you."

"He won't. It'll calm the big toddler down."

By now, the doctor had removed his shirt and vest, revealing several scrapes and the one cut more clearly.

"I'll get the first aid kit," Mycroft said rushing off again.

John smirked. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the only overgrown toddler. Mycroft looked mightily uncomfortable when he left and even worse when he came back.

The government official was having a difficult time of it. He knew John's wounds needed tending to, but that meant touching the man. He would have to keep his touch cool and clinical lest John realise the truth. It wouldn't do for Sherlock's friend to discover that he, Mycroft Holmes, was more than a bit fascinated by him.

That could be seen as vulnerable. If people knew he had a fascination with him as well as Sherlock having the same thoughts, he would be in three times the amount of danger he already was in.

"Was this a message for Sherlock?"

John hissed as Mycroft cleaned the cut. "Actually, no. This was about someone from Afghanistan. Apparently I couldn't save his leg." He sighed. "Christ, I hated it when that happened."

"Do you remember it?"

John looked away.

"That's a no, then."

"No, it's a I can remember all of them. I always can. The ones I didn't save."

Mycroft sighed, "Couldn't," he countered.

"I remember every soldier that died or didn't go back whole. At least half of my nightmares are about that." He glanced down at the cut. "I don't think it needs stitches. Butterfly closures would work."

Mycroft rummaged around in his kit, holding up a box. "Will these do?"

John blinked dumbly. "Yeah, I guess."

"John, you don't look great. In fact, you look grey."

"Funny, I feel grey." With that, the doctor fell over on Mycroft's sofa, out cold.

The government official called Anthea, knowing she could get an ambulance there faster than if he had dialled 999.

He knew it was Sherlock when the door was kicked in.

The detective ran across the room to the doctor. "John?" He looked over his shoulder. "Mycroft, what have you done?"

"I've called for an ambulance." The government official backed out of the way, feeling useless and guilty.

"I mean to John. He was fine when I spoke to him."

"Sherlock, he had the shit kicked out of him, his physical state was all over the place, let alone his emotional state." He felt even more uncomfortable, he wasn't one for emotions.

"You should have taken him straight to hospital," the detective complained.

"I'm sure you of all people know how easy that is."

Sherlock made a knowing sound. "Yes, he's as stubborn as I. How far out is the ambulance?"

The approaching sirens saved Mycroft the trouble of answering.

"For once, your secratary has come in handy."

Without bothering to wait any longer, he lifted John in his arms and headed to the door. He knew Mycroft had carried him in, so he couldn't have damaged his back.

The elder Holmes was torn: go with the ambulance, or stay here and start the hunt for the thugs that had done this?

Now that his baby brother was around he wasn't needed where John was concerned despite the fact he wanted to see his response when he was fully alert.

He went straight upstairs to his desk.

It didn't take long to have a full list of every soldier John had ever worked on. Well, every soldier it was known that John had worked on. They were every one grateful to him for saving their lives. Something more had to be going on.

He glanced at the clock and was more than aware the doctor would need to remain at hospital for a while so he grabbed his keys. Baker Street it was. He could track people from there.

Mycroft fidgeted all the way to Baker Street. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to sit still. He berated himself for behaving like Sherlock.

The attackwrs would need to follow John to work and then follow him back. Which meant they'd be able to see Baker Street from wherever they started off.

At the flat, Mycroft made himself at home. He set himself up in John's chair and phoned Anthea for an update on the doctor's condition.

He spotted something in the corner and hung up before he got an answer.

It was a camera: surveillance device. And it wasn't his.

His first impulse was to go and rip it from its place, but Mycroft restrained himself. Perhaps his team could track the feed it was sending out. He dialled Anthea again. "Get one of the techs over to Baker Street immediately."

"Doctor Watson is still unconscious Mr. Holmes and your brother is in quite a state."

"I would say send my brother here, but he would be of no use to me. Do not let him leave the hospital, the last thing I need is to go on a hunt for him as well as the guilty party."

Mycroft could almost hear Anthea smile at that.

"Understood, Mr. Holmes."

Terminating the call, the elder Holmes brother resumed his research. He had to be missing something. If only John was conscious, he could question him about any field surgery he might have done that was off the record.

When his phone buzzed again he growled.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" He snapped.

"Mycroft, I can help. John has nightmares, he says things in his sleep sometimes."

"Such as?"

"Names. Many I have managed to find, some I haven't."

"Good. That's good."

"Mycroft!"

"I don't mean that he has nightmares, Sherlock. I mean that you have names. List them for me."

The detective let out a shaky breath before beginning. "James Bartholomew, William David, Grant Hubbard and Henry Mills. Those are the one I haven't been able to trace."

"Any stand out for any reason?"

"The last two are dead. It's all John would say but I still can't trace them."

"Alright." Mycroft cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thank you, little brother."

The government official looked at the short list of names. It was difficult to believe Sherlock couldn't trace them. It galled him to admit it, but his brother was good at this sort of thing. Either Sherlock was too distracted by John's condition to be effective or someone had altered the records.

Why would some go through all that trouble to just beat John up? Something else had to be going on here.

The doorbell buzzed and Mycroft got up to answer the door.

"Come in. Upstairs."

Mycroft had made it to the second step when he felt the sting at his neck. His hand came up reflexively to brush at it and knocked away a syringe. As he fell backwards, hands caught him and the world went dark.

When Mycroft awoke his head ached like mad. He had been tied to a chair, beside him was his brother.

"Sherlock…" he croaked.

The detective glanced over looking rather guilty. "John's fine. Your security detail stayed on him."

"So how exactly are you here with me?"

"I um… had a- had a- a feeling something was wrong."

"You had a hunch, you mean. I don't suppose you thought to tell Gregory where you were going before you dashed off?" The government official let out a sigh at the look oh his brother's face. "I didn't think so."

"So who's this about? Because it's clearly not John."

Mycroft pictured the man that had knocked on the door and tried to deduce him in his head.

"Me," he said eventually.

"What? Why hurt John?"

Mycroft felt ashamed as he glanced at his brother.

"Mycroft, explain."

"The only time I don't have a security detail on me is when I'm in your flat."

"So?"

"I feel they likely assumed I'd take John back there. To you. In your flat anyone could get to me."

"Then why am I here?"

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Isn't it obvious, little brother?"

The detective stared at him blankly.

"Sentiment," was all Mycroft said in the way of clarification.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Then they'll be sorely disappointed, won't they, brother mine?" He resumed trying to get free from his restraints, but it was no use. Even if he dislocated his thumb, his restraints were too tight for him to wriggle free.

When Sherlock realised his brother hadn't replied he looked back at him.

The government official had lowered his head.

"Mycroft?"

"Just shut it!" Mycroft snapped.

It hurt more than he was willing to show that Sherlock still thought he didn't care after all this time. He calmed himself and cast about for a justification of his outburst. "Listen. I think they're coming."

Cocking his head to the side, Sherlock strained to hear anything that would indicate their captors' immediate appearance. "You're hearing things,"he said scornfully.

***

Mycroft had fallen silent after that and it had been well over an hour since then when the door was kicked in.

Two men walked in and two stood at the door.

"Remember him?" a clipboard was shoved into Mycroft's stomach and he looked down at it.

"David Willi-"

Mycroft was cut off with a punch to the jaw.

"Williams…" Sherlock finished. "That's… ingenious." It was so obvious not even the Holmeses had seen it.

"But I still don't…" Sherlock trailed off and saw the look on Mycroft's face.

"Go on, Senior. Explain it to your slow little brother."

"David worked for me a long time ago… he was accused of treason, and sent to Afghanistan as a compromise."

"William came back with one leg!" The older of the two men snapped, reaching over to smack Sherlock.

"No-" Mycroft yelled. "Don't!"

Sherlock spit blood, the inside of his cheek had been cut. "You're idiots," he snapped at the two men. "Mycroft doesn't care what happens to me."

"You see, that's where you're wrong, Mr. Holmes, or can I call you Sherlock? Your bother cares about very little else." The man punched Sherlock in the stomach.

Sherlock tried to double over, but the other man had wandered around and grabbed his handcuffed wrists.

"Get up!" Sherlock was forced to his feet.

The handcuffs cut into Sherlock's wrists they were so tight. He didn't make a sound, though. Not until the man behind him punched him in the kidney hard. He dropped to his knees, gasping in pain.

"That's it, Sherlock, stay right there."

The other man grinned. "We have a friend of yours that wanted to play. He just needed the smallest reason."

"We'll go and get him."

Sherlock tried to stand up and got another punch to the face for us troubles.

"No, stay there."

The moment the two brothers were left alone, Mycroft asked, "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Of course not," the detective shot back, "but I've had far worse." He didn't like the direction things were going. "In fact, I imagine I'm about to experience worse again."

Mycroft sighed. This was mad. "Did you do anything to give Gregory any idea where you were going?"

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" He spat. "I'm not there anymore!"

"There might be clues, Sherlock. Gregory is hardly an idiot. He would find them."

Sherlock was about to make a sharp retort when the door to their prison opened again.

"Hi boys!"

Sherlock groaned. "So you're the reason they found us. I thought they were idiots."

"Oh no, no, no," Moriarty chuckled. "They found you. I told them how to get you."

Mycroft resisted the urge to beg the consulting criminal to let Sherlock go. It would only spur Jim to darker places and more hideous torture for his brother if he did. Besides, he wasn't sure which one of them Jim wanted to hurt more.

He trotted across the room towards Sherlock, like a horse would in a dressage test and ever so carefully he swung upwards and clocked Sherlock in the jaw.

The detective fell backwards to the floor. When he had recovered, he taunted, "Is that the best you can do? You must be rusty, what with not getting your hands dirty and all."

"Sherlock, shut up!" Mycroft growled.

It didn't do any good. Jim kicked the detective in the ribs viciously.

Before Mycroft realised what he had done he had cried out "Stop it!"

The desperation in Mycroft's voice made Sherlock look up at him.

"Oh dear," Jim taunted. "Little brother is a little slow."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

The government official couldn't stand it anymore. "Don't hurt him anymore, please." He was ashamed that he broke so damn easily.

"Oh, but I like big bro. He's so much fun!" Jim pulled Sherlock up by the hair and kissed him.

Sherlock spluttered trying to pull away. Jim just punched him in the bollocks and he doubled over. He pulled a gun from his waist band and pressed it to the back of Sherlock's head.

"What would you give me to not pull the trigger, Mycie?"

"I'd do anyth-" Mycroft was cut off by the sound of gunshots in the distance.

Jim rolled his eyes. "How absolutely boring. I wanted to play for a while." He waved the gun around in the air. "Now I don't know which one of you to shoot first."

Mycroft glanced at his brother who had collapsed on his side.

"Me," he whispered.

Before Jim could move the gun on the government official, the door was kicked through and John charged in, not looking well, but he was shortly followed by Greg.

Together, they tackled Moriarty to the floor. John had a firm grip on Jim's wrist and prised the gun from his hand. It discharged during the struggle, the bullet lodging harmlessly in the wall.

Greg got the upper hand immediately and John moved to Sherlock, he winced at seeing his wrists as he tried to help him sit up. "Greg we need the keys," John coughed up blood, spitting it beside the detective.

"Mycroft, are you hurt?"

"No. Just help Sherlock. Please."

The DI passed John the keys they had taken off one of Moriarty's henchmen.

"Hold still, will you, Sherlock," the doctor said as Sherlock tried to go to his brother. "I said hold still!' He managed to get the cuffs unlocked despite the lack of cooperation.

The moment Sherlock was free, he snatched the keys and went to release his brother. His motions were pained, but he was determined.

"You had to bloody wind him up!" Mycroft snapped once Sherlock had got his own wrists free.

"I didn't know!" He yelled back.

"Boys! Stop shouting," Greg said as other officers started pouring into the room.

"You know how he is," Mycroft complained to the DI. "Look at him. He could have got himself killed before you arrived."

"But I didn't!" Sherlock shouted. "And I would have kept winding him up to keep him from hurting you."

The brothers went silent, each one looking at the other in disbelief.

"What's going on?" John asked. "What did I miss?"

"You missed the fact you're about to pass out."

John glanced at the DI in confusion, but his eyes shut and he collapsed in Mycroft's direction.

The government official managed to catch him and lower him to the ground.

"John!" Sherlock hovered over the doctor's prone form. "John, wake up. Don't leave me."

Mycroft placed a calming hand on his brother's shoulder. "Calm down, Sherlock. He's not in any danger. He overtaxed his already strained system. That's all. He'll be fine." The look Sherlock gave him was full of fear for the doctor. "I promise you, baby brother. I wouldn't lie about this, not John. I know how much he means to you."

"You took him to yours. Why didn't you bring him home?"

Mycroft sighed. "Does it need saying?"

Sherlock wanted to crouch down beside the doctor, but as he did, he groaned, his ribs feeling like they were about to fall out if that was even possible.

"You were protecting him to protect me," Sherlock said, not realising he had spoken aloud.

"Just so, baby brother."

John roused enough to crack his eyes open.

"Shh, don't say anything," Sherlock urged. "Just rest. You shouldn't have come."

"I'm fine," the doctor said as he struggled to sit up. "Just... I'm fine."

He put his hand out to steady himself and groaned.

"Gregory, I am assuming an ambulance is on the way?"

The DI was staring at Sherlock in shock.

"What? Oh yeah, it's outside."

The detective scooped John up in his arms.

"Put me down. I can walk."

"Hush, John. Greg, take care of Mycroft. I believe Moriarty's men were a bit rough with him."

Mycroft raised a hand in protest. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Don't worry about me. Take care of your doctor."

Except getting near the door, Sherlock stumbled.

"Sherlock, put me down!"

"I'm fine."

"Well I bloody well deduce you're in a similar state to me."

"I am not."

"Sherlock," John said in a warning tone.

"Fine." The detective set John on his feet.

The doctor reached for his boyfriend. "Together, then."

They continued forward, supporting one another as they went. As soon as they had disappeared through the door, Mycroft swayed perilously where he stood.

"Jesus, Mycroft." Greg rushed over. "I didn't think you were hurt that bad.

"You weren't meant to, or rather, Sherlock wasn't meant to. He needs to be thinking about himself and John right now."

Greg ran a hand over his face. "This is a mess." He steadied Mycroft a little more. "You weren't hurt here, were you?"

"I rather think falling down the stairs and being dragged a good 100 meters probably hasn't helped."

"Point taken. I want you to get checked out by the paramedics just the same," the DI insisted. As they walked, Greg shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe the pair of you. It must be a sibling thing."

"What's that, Gregory?"

"You would both move heaven and earth to keep each other safe, but the way you two bicker no one would ever know it."

Mycroft smiled to himself. Everything Greg said was true, but neither he nor Sherlock would ever admit it. That was how it was with them, and it was fine just the way it was.


End file.
